


hot like fire

by fizzjam



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Gore, F/M, Hybrids, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Oral Sex, idk how to tag tho, shameless and super self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 09:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10273964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fizzjam/pseuds/fizzjam
Summary: the last thing reaper expects to find is companionship on an assassination mission.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea how to explain this thing other than i wanted some flimsy-ass excuse for hybrid bullshit and i've been binge listening to the no sleep podcast. so here it is, in all its unbeta'd truly awful glory. constructive criticism is always welcome, lord knows i need it.
> 
> petitions for mary-sue reader 2k17

Gabriel Reyes is dead.

 

It feels a little stupid to be thinking it, like invoking Charles Dickens ( _Jacob Marley was dead to begin with_ ), but there is a legitimate disconnect between that name and himself, because Gabriel Reyes died in Switzerland, and from his ashes rose the Reaper, who is not Gabriel Reyes. But this mission requires a reminder, because in his gut stirs something so distinctly _Gabriel Reyes_ that for brief, dizzying seconds Gabriel Reyes and Reaper are almost the same person. It’s disorienting.

 

It’d appeared cut and dry at first: some corporate big wig, head of some internationally acclaimed R&D company, had taken sandpaper to the wrong undercarriage, and that ire had called in Talon, but he should’ve known. So many things went weird almost immediately afterwards that _he should’ve known_.

 

First had been the payment. Talon does this kind of assassinating routinely, has a set price on the website almost, but the transfer had been almost triple the usual fee, from some anonymous offshore account, looped through what appeared to be at least seven more, and his contact had reported with notable disbelief that they’d promised _more_ upon completion. At the time, Reaper had admired this person’s gusto; anyone who wanted to see another person dead this much had the kind of guts he admired in his peers. Now, it just seems… fitting.

 

Second had been Sombra. Normally she’s the first to ingratiate herself in missions, wants to know precisely who they’re up against and what’s to be gained (for her, specifically; Reaper knows that she’s consistently on the lookout for _numero uno_ ), but the instant he’d mentioned the company name, she’d gone ghostly white, this look of unspoken discomfort and horror on her face before she’d stopped, disengaged, and declined involvement. Further pressure from some of the other agents had yielded cursory explanations about the company’s long history, something about stemming from the third reich or whatever, but his history is good enough to remember that the scientific minds in Germany had been highly prized, even after the war, so having connections to scientists involved in what went down in Europe during the second world war is nothing to fuss about.

 

But there’s a big difference from _stemming from_ and _continuing the research_ , because no mission briefing can ever account for posters on the walls tracing Aryan lineages, seeking the revival of ancient Aryan beasts. Upon descending into the subterranean laboratories, he sees precisely why Sombra had been so keen on avoiding this mission. It takes a lot to shake him up, but to know that when the total liquidation alert had been activated, it meant purging countless ghastly experiments made his blood run even colder than it had been already. There is this tiny, infinitesimally small voice inside him that insists that this kind of thing isn’t what he signed on for, and it’s this part, this Gabriel Reyes part of him that flares to life each time he happens upon some grotesque facsimile of a human, shot through the head, recently deceased. He relishes the kill, the skill it takes to see the life of another being leave its eyes, but this is… not even overkill.

 

When he finds his target, it’s a sniveling, sobbing, snot-covered man in his late forties, begging for his life, promising to pull the plug on this department of research, and Reaper can safely say that he’s heard everything, every excuse, every bargain, and each time, he takes no bait, completes his mission without even a little satisfaction. This is business, he always tells himself, no sense in getting worked up. His personal feelings matter next to nothing in this line of work.

 

But this time, he feels a particular sense of righteousness when pulling the trigger. He wonders if any of the experiments this man had ordered _liquidated_ had the capacity to beg anymore or if they just sat there and took it, because they knew nothing else. Again, there is overlap between Reaper and Gabriel Reyes, a strange, disjointed feeling, and he just wants to get out of here, get back to the work that lets him plan a hundred ways to murder a single human being without any of this existentialist bullshit.

 

Gunfire in the adjacent room alerts him, and he’s immediately on guard, stepping through the threshold with his guns raised, fully prepared to take out the remnants of the CEO’s bodyguards.

 

Instead, he finds a girl, naked, covered in blood, feasting on the gaping neck wound of a man holding a gun as he gurgles. It takes Reaper one try to guess he’d missed attempting to defend himself, and the man gives him this long look of despair, pleading for help, but Reaper feels nothing as he simply watches.

 

The girl turns to look at him, and it’s then he notices that she’s… got ears. Dog ears? They look like they belong to a German Shepherd, blending into her dark hair. There’s a tail, too. Immediately he pieces it together: one experiment escaped liquidation.

 

She growls, this feral look in her eyes, like she’s ready to pounce on him next, and without hesitation, Reaper drops both guns and assumes a yielding stance. He’s worked with dogs enough to know how to avoid riling one, and he hopes his hunch is correct when he assumes she’ll follow the same rules. Her body language no longer speaks of cornered animal, and instead she approaches warily, teeth still bared, mouth still smeared with blood.

 

“My job’s done,” he states simply, avoiding an aggressive tone, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

 

“You smell like death,” she counters, voice a steady growl, “forgive me if I don’t believe you.” This is a human in full flight-or-fight, an animal fully prepared to fight its way out should he prove to be less than his word. Again, the traces of Gabriel Reyes in him speak of years of admiring dogs for their steadfast companionship and loyalty, traits he used to think he himself had, and there’s… a weird sense of kinship with this animal. When the walls were closing in, she did whatever it took to remain living, much like he clawed his way from the banks of the River Styx, and he sees… potential? Maybe. He doesn’t really know what it is.

 

Something possesses him. Maybe it really is the ghost of Gabriel Reyes.

 

“Death comes for us all eventually,” he replies smoothly, “but it seems like you’re hell-bent on avoiding him for now. Come with me and maybe you’ll stand a chance.”

 

\--

 

You don’t trust this man, even if he promises you a place to stay and a job.

 

The stench of rot permeates him, deeper than his clothes and skin, emanating from his very core. More than anything you wish you couldn’t smell it, like gunpowder and _cemetery_ , so strong it almost overwhelms you. What’s worse, however, is that you aren’t sure it’s worse than the sterile labs, antiseptic barely masking the wafting scent of gore and embalming fluid. That’s the worst about your situation: humans aren’t meant to be able to smell like this, but here you are, brain firing on more cylinders than it has to process the overpowering stench of the world around you.

 

He introduces himself as Reaper and says he works for a company that offers miscreants like you a way to make a living. At this point, your options are limited, and even if he didn’t directly save your life, the opportunity he gives you is more than anyone has given you in a long time, so you take the job, and he gives you a portion of the absurd sum of money paid to eliminate the man responsible for your current predicament.

 

“Someone really wanted him dead,” he tells you, “understandably so. The stuff I saw was enough, and it must pale to the shit you’ve seen.”

 

The parts you do remember are horrible, he isn’t wrong, but the gaping holes in your memory offer no comfort, either. “Electroshock therapy,” you tell him one evening over dinner in a mess hall dimly-lit and smelling of jet fuel and army rations, “supposed to make me more docile or something. Fried my brain to the point of retrograde amnesia.” You can’t tell if the words you use are your own, or something regurgitated from the scientists monitoring you. Maybe the amnesia had been part of the process: forget who you were to mold you into someone new.

 

And it worked, to a certain degree: you remember nothing but the lab. Your hair might’ve been a different color beforehand. Maybe your face looked totally different; they have the capability to reconstruct you a thousand times over. You gather from the hushed conversations of the monitoring scientists that yours had been an experiment, one of many, seeking to produce an enhanced super soldier, obedient and loyal, willing to follow orders without question, with senses far above that of the enemy. German Shepherd DNA, or something like that; equal parts dog and human.

 

Talon offers you their resources to try and discover who you were before the experiment, but it’s been so long, and you remember vaguely periods of cryostasis. You could’ve been held for years, decades and you never would’ve known. You have no reference point, no memories of anything before the lab save for one, small thing, that you held onto like a lifeline. It was the one thing that let you know for a fact that you were someone before the experiment, before your life in the lab.

 

“My name,” you murmur into your pillow one night, loud enough for other operatives to hear, “it’s (y/n).”

 

\--

 

Reaper finds that previous experience with canines and how they operate comes in handy. He’s able to communicate with you efficiently, explain to you why he does some of the things he does in relation to dog behavior and how it bleeds into your own, and it helps. Your inherent personality and the overlapping canine characteristics make for a potent cocktail of headstrong and determined, fiercely loyal, with a spark of bloodlust that makes missions with you all the more interesting. It seems you discover new parts of yourself, new abilities and how to use them, frequently, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t impressed by your boundless ingenuity and the joy on your face upon taking down some poor slob using nothing but your teeth.

 

Sombra makes a joke about new armor requirements, how they’ll need to guard big, beefy necks specifically, and while Reaper doesn’t find it particularly funny, you laugh about it for several days afterwards.

 

If you have any qualms about Talon’s criminal activities, you say nothing about it. It seems you enjoy the work, regardless of who it is on the chopping block. Again, Reaper admires your initiative and dedication.

 

But something changes, and he can’t decide at first if it’s for the better.

 

One mission, pitifully easy, sees you running point for Widowmaker, and he happens upon you enjoying the spoils, mouth smeared with windpipe, eyes hazy as your hand works furiously between your thighs. He isn’t sure what he’s seeing at first, taking a moment to simply watch as you grunt and slurp and rut.

 

When you notice him, you smile with bloodstained teeth.

 

“He lived for a minute,” you tell him, this frenzied look in your eye that he’s never seen before, “so I finished him off for her.”

 

His outfit grows uncomfortable. Seeing you succumbing to something that’s clearly a base instinct is strangely satisfying in the way that makes his blood pump faster. You turn to face him fully, sniffing the air, licking your gore-stained mouth tongue hanging out like the air itself tastes. “You smell different now,” you growl, approaching him, _stalking_ , “better. You got some warmth in there now, Reaper.”

 

He isn’t sure what the hell is happening. “Agent,” he begins, a warning, but to whom, he isn’t sure.

 

“Gunpowder and decay and _arousal_ ,” you continue, uninhibited, and he swears he sees you salivating as you close in on him. As soon as you’re within arm’s reach, he can feel you, your body radiating, so hot he thinks you might burn him from proximity alone. Only when you’re up against him, rutting against his thigh, tongue hanging out does it finally occur to him: you’re in heat.

 

Or something like it. You aren’t wholly dog after all.

 

“Bet you taste even better than that asshole,” you whisper, and it takes all of Reaper’s strength to restrain you as you writhe and wiggle and attempt to get closer to him again. “Gonna give me a taste? I’ll let you put it in if you do—”

 

“Sombra,” Reaper begins, “we have a problem. I need you to escort the dog back to the kennel.”

 

“Yes!” you practically howl, getting in close to his earpiece, “bring Sombra, bring Widow, too, let me—just let me—”

 

Finally, blessedly, he knocks you unconscious so he can explain the situation unimpeded to his teammates. Sombra makes a series of disgruntled noises before finally agreeing to escort you back to base on the condition that Reaper forgives the debt she owes him for a bet on a previous mission. At this rate, it’s the best he can do.

 

He really doesn’t look forward to seeing you when he returns to base himself.

 

\--

 

The world is burning, aching, every smell twice as sharp and twice as _good_. Your body overloads, every synapse firing at once, every nerve ending alight with heat and sizzling pleasure. You’ve never experienced anything like this before, not even in the lab that you can remember, which makes it all the more difficult to control. The worst, however, is that smell imprinted on the underside of your brain like a persistent memory, so sharp you can almost taste it: Reaper’s smell, transformed by arousal and heat into something so desirable that it’s all you can think about. You replay the scene over and over again, the feel of his firm thigh against your cunt and the wafting scent of ammo and graveyard. God, if only he’d let you get closer…

 

You spend your days clawing at the door of one of the panic rooms, forced in there for not only your safety, but the safety of the other agents. Sombra had pointedly refused to take babysitting duty after the flight back, so much to your delight, Reaper took the assignment himself, standing outside, listening to you whine and plead for him to override the door lock and let you out. Your repayment would be excellent, your assured, but he remained impassive for the most part.

 

Until day three of your containment.

 

“Your name,” you all but purr, nails against the door, “it’s Gabriel, right? Sombra showed me your file. Gabriel Reyes, former commander of Blackwatch. I knew you were special.”

 

Reaper stiffens, and also decides he’ll hold Sombra to that bet, the ungrateful asshole. “That’s not important, (y/n),” he tells you icily, firmly, but the door only lessens his threatening presence.

 

“Gaaaabriel,” you murmur, voice soft like silk sheets, meant to entice him, “I smelled you that day, I know you want me. It’s okay—I want you, too.”

 

“Kid, you’re just saying that. Right now, you’ll do anything to get what you want, you’re literally a bitch in heat.” Even if he can’t stop thinking about the sweltering heat of your cunt on his leg, and the desperation in your eyes. This time, however, he isn’t sure if this part of him is Gabriel Reyes talking or if it’s Reaper desperate to sink balls deep into that soft body.

 

“No,” you continue, voice surprisingly normal for a moment, “don’t want Sombra, don’t want Widow. Want you. They didn’t save me, you did.” He’s torn between regretting sparing you and being weirdly touched that you considered him to be any degree of savior. If he recalls correctly, you’d done all the saving yourself and he’d just given you the opportunity to get the hell out of dodge. “Wanted you before the heat, gonna want you after.”

 

“You don’t mean that,” he says, matter-of-factly, even if he isn’t sure he believes it. You fall into pitiful whining, still scratching at the goddamn door like a puppy trying to gain entry to the closed bedroom.

 

“You believe me, I know you do,” you whine, almost begging, “please, Reaper, just open the door and let me kiss you a little, I won’t even try to suck your cock or anything.” He highly suspects the latter part is false, but his resolve wavers. Against his better judgment, he overrides the door lock and it slides open, revealing you naked, sweltering, and beyond elated to see him. He can’t even step through the door before you’re on him, clawing at him, pulling him close to kiss him and press yourself bodily to him for relief. He hasn’t felt warmth like this in what feels like lifetimes, and he’s a little ashamed to admit that it feels kind of nice.

 

You appear soothed by his presence alone, keeping true to your word and just kissing at his mask, licking, body shaking as you try not to rut against him. After a long moment, he pulls his mask away to reveal someone washed out, a ghostly shade of vampire, and your mouth is on his so fast and hard he almost tumbles backwards. “Gonna warm you up,” you whisper, licking at the corners of his lips, tugging gently with your teeth, “you feel so good.”

 

He feels younger and weird and different with someone on him like this, like you can’t get enough, and his breathing is labored as he tries to make heads or tails of himself. Now that he’s here, he wants to give in, give you what your body obviously craves, and you seem to sense this without him even having to breathe differently.

 

“Just let me do all the work, I’ll do all the work,” you promise eagerly, like he might change his mind before you get the chance to do anything, rutting against his thigh all over again. The feeling of him between your thighs is so good, relief in its purest form, that you orgasm, right there, with little provocation. He’s simultaneously aroused and surprised, staring down at you in subdued disbelief. “You feel so good, gonna drive me insane.”

 

And then you’re crawling down his body, burying your nose in the crotch of his pants to inhale deeply and he can’t help but groan. You mouth at him over the fabric, one hand slipping between your thighs to touch your aching cunt all over again, desperation seizing you all at once. You’ve wanted this for so long, wanted just a little taste and now he’s giving it to you and it’s made all the more intense by heat and hormones. He’s painfully hard now, expectation spiking when you press your tongue flat against the head of his erection through his pants and lick. “If you’re gonna do this, then do it right, _perra_ ,” he snarls, and the name makes you growl in this way that has arousal spiking hard in him.

 

Reaper wishes he could say he’s mad when you shred his pants with your claws and chew your way through his fly, but the sight of you so desperate for him that you don’t even have it in you to fiddle with belts and buttons sends a rush of desire through him so strong it makes his head swim a little. His cock is in your mouth before he can hope to reprimand you, swallowed to the base, and _holy shit_ it’s been a long time, because he’s ready to come almost immediately.

 

You suck him off like you plan to drain the last of his soul from him, slurping and grunting and touching yourself and he wants the sight of you gagging around his cock while you grind against your hand etched into his memory until the end of time, existing long after his consciousness has ceased to be. “Fuck,” he hisses, “you weren’t kidding about being eager.”

 

The noise you make is a garbled purr, made around the head of his cock as you do your best to smile, your free hand sliding beneath his balls to fondle, and that, combined with your eager sucking have him coming hard without warning, but you don’t seem to care. You drink him down without even pausing, even as you fail to keep up and come drools out of the sides of your mouth and down your chin. You pull away only when he swats you away in sensitivity, licking your lips and panting. You look so pleased and fucked out, still stroking fingertips over your clit as your tongue hangs out, licking your lips and chin clean.

 

He begins to realize that you’re insatiable. He might be in over his head.

 

“Let me return the favor, kid,” he begins, but you pin him back down to the floor, shaking your head.

 

“No, need inside,” you grunt, and he’s almost positive he isn’t ready for another round, but you’re grinding down on him, sliding the wet length of your cunt along his shaft regardless. “You still smell so good, aah…”

 

Briefly he wonders whatever happened to him smelling like death, but then you’re sinking down on his half-hard cock, forcing him inside you where it’s sweltering hot and wet and _fuck_ , he’s still sensitive. He can only think about that searing hot pressure, the silken tightness of you around him, and he realizes it’s been a long while, and you’re threatening to consume him entirely. The only noise he makes is a halfhearted grunt as he feels himself harden again inside you.

 

“So good,” you slur, rocking your hips slowly to savor the feeling of him, “wondered for so long what you feel like and it’s better than anything, ohhh…” At that moment, it’s like the last of your willpower withers and you ride him in earnest, fucking yourself on his cock so hard that he feels your cervix against the tip of his cock each time you ram your hips against his. You’re drooling, sweating, growling, and fuck, it’s hot, watching you so uninhibited. There is comfort in the realization that this is only a girl that Reaper could fall knees to chest for, wild and utterly uninhibited, characterized by bloodlust and reckless youth. He admits to himself in this moment that he’s wanted this for a while, too, and that no amount of trying to pretend he doesn’t will change it.

 

When he comes again, you do, too, howling and mewling and writhing like a fucking handful, coming like a fucking fountain across his pelvis and balls and _shit_ , he almost comes again just from the sight alone. You’re almost too much for him, he decides as he comes down, especially when you pull off and begin to lick him clean.

 

“There,” you tell him, voice soft and drowsy, “now you smell like me, now everyone will know my territory.” You sound so pleased, and he can’t say he particularly minds as you nuzzle his hipbones and thighs, licking at his skin. There are certainly worse people to have looking out for him.

 

Tentatively, he reaches out to stroke your hair, fingers touching on your ears in a way that makes you sigh happily.


End file.
